


Chit Chat Time

by Souja



Category: BIRDMEN - 田辺イエロウ | Tanabe Yellow
Genre: AU's a plenty, Drabbles, Gen, Thought Barf, as in 'these aren't all related', im so tired, sometimes holidays are actually three months long and thats okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-02-22 01:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13156626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souja/pseuds/Souja
Summary: Centered around the departure from Tokyo, a few drabbles for the holiday season.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, did you mean it?”

He blinked at Irene, the only other present on the tall tower. She, in turn, blinked up at him from where she was, all upside down and solemn faced like an oddly shapen, off-coloured bat.

“Before,” she clarified, scrunching her eyebrows and puckering her nose. Her voice deepened in a showy imitation of his, “‘ _Do that and, I’ll kill you_ ’.”

“Oh,” Mikisada said, “Yes.”

A spasm rocked through the tiny body and for a minute he feared she would fall down. But she snapped up, laughing, _ramming his forehead_. “Quick response!” her taloned hands held her sides together as she cackled.

Mikisada cradled his head. There wouldn’t be a bruise, but it _hurt,_  damn it!

“Why?” she asked once the pain had subsided. Her eyes were large, like Nehan’s when she focused on her favourite toy. Or Kuu’s just before meal times. She blinked at him, expectant, and Mikisada felt himself frown. He waved a small nebula of stars away.

Contrary to the amount of fights he (used to!) get in wasn’t like he walked around declaring his killing intent--that would be exhausting, to say the least. But what was she expecting?

Irene coiled herself up once more, pressing her knees to her chest, “I kicked your ass and the other guys’ too--and nothing.” A gentle tilt of her head accompanied the narrowing of eyes, and Mikisada felt, for a moment, like he was in a quiz he hadn’t studied for, “Why him?”

Now he thought, but the answer was already on the tip of his tongue. He thought of black hair and round glasses and of a taciturn face. He thought of pranks and comments made (and backfired, and made again). Of skipping classes and bus crashes. There really was no other answer. “Because it’s him.” he settled, grinning, “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“No.”

“What?!”


	2. Path

The first thing he changed was the fact that he died.

Because originally, _originally,_  the rest more or less survived the accident on the bus. Kamoda had recovered with the help of the new seraph blood, as had Umino and Sagisawa. But him? His cells hadn’t taken to it well.

His antibodies rejected it outright. Instead of emulating the shape of his cells, affixing and integrating at bonding sites, the wingmass had suppressed his functions and triggered a reaction. He’d _actually_ died of a rare sort of decompression sickness that made some morally decrepit scientists in Greenland beg like hungry wolves for his cadaver.

So the first thing he changed, and he didn’t even realise he’d done it, was his own death. He moved against it, rallying his cells with an indignant cry of _Not Today, Fate!_ Wingmass exploded into his veins, then, but it wasn’t welcomed with open arms. If he were to change, it would be on _his_ terms. His cells argued against the strangers, who won them over first with gifts of improved sight, then in pulsing familiarity with what would become the Bird Club. The last thing he shared was his mind, tall mental walls disapproving of the newcomers.

But then Takayama had taken him to the skies like a damn spartan, and an impromptu treaty was formed. Fly or die, they’d decided, and if they would  _fly_ then brain and new body had to work together. The resolve to not _die_ shattered the walls somewhere between being dropped and making contact with water.

As proof of progress they’d saved his mothers phone.

 

\--

 

The second thing changed was the coffin blackout, the one he faced alone. He was unprepared when the sky gossiped his nightmares and chased him down and singed his wings. When he bled into the sand and the sea, and his body screamed at him. The thing had menaced just behind him, a taunting spire to his weaknesses.

Kamoda sometimes said he was a glutton for punishment-- and he was beginning to think that maybe it was true. Instead of making the thing come later in the evening, or moving closer to where the rest were and he could find _help_ , he made Takayama wait.

Like some kind of giddily reckless fool, he’d stared it down for _longer,_ convinced on some level that there was something he could do. Because there was something fundamentally _unfair_ about surfacing from the Tokyo Bay to find that Takayama had slain his demon for him. It boiled his blood while turning his muscles to ice. It was a thing he truly  _hated._   

Puffing out his wings as he said, " _Come at me,"_ had an effect twofold. At first, it boosted his morale, but more importantly it was a claim of ownership, a warning.

" _Back off,"_ it said to the ears that he _knew_ were listening, " _T_ _his one’s mine._

Takayama was impressed. 

 

_\--_

 

He didn't try to change Sagisawa’s blackout, and honestly he probably wouldn’t have been able to. The thought had crossed his mind in a parade of _what if’s._  Could Sagisawa be pushed out of the way, made so the mask flew off and into some distant place? Maybe his wings could leech away the hurt if he tried hard enough.

But he’d settled instead on what happened next, because the hurt would still bubble there if he didn’t. The last thing they needed was for it to become a hidden fixation, only to be exposed by a figure of soot and nightmares. He called the old man, who’d taken the spot of first speed dial, and asked for guidance.

_Maybe he could go back in time._

“Hey, Old Man, do you have a second?”

_Maybe he could help._

“I don’t know...what to do.”

In the end he’d kicked puddles and dragged his umbrella across dirty sidewalks. The thought crept in once more. _Could he have done more?_ And he pressed his eyes closed, letting it go on its way.

 

\--

 

The third thing he’d changed, the _actual_ third thing, was Kamoda’s death. Because without him in it, the world had turned a shade of _red_ that absolutely permeated everything he did. And in the absence of joy and a lumbering form, anger twisted their Earth into seething spirals.

And he knew...he knew Kamoda would not approve. But it _hurt so much_ and he couldn’t help it. He’d only seen it in a glimpse--the image of himself, isolated but unbearably connected. A reaction formation that sectioned him off in a case of invisible glass. Close enough to act should Eden strike again but far enough that the bonds they forged were mostly shallow. All he needed was the “In Case of Emergency” sign.

Eishi gripped Kamoda’s head like it was a basketball, and forced him to watch as he snarled against such an awful ending. _He would not die._

 

\--

 

He didn’t wish to change anything with Irene.

By then the past seemed less like something that was dwelled upon. Sure, he ruminated from time to time, but never for more than a few hours. Who had the time? Who had the mental space?

First there was Birdgirl and then there was _his school_ and then there was the _panther_ and-- there was just too much, too soon.

And they’d gotten a comrade out of it. What was there to change?

 

\--

 

…

…

He can’t really change the past.

He can’t turn back time to when he was wrenched awake by the New York Birdman. He can‘t make it so he joined in the chorus to make them _stop._ He couldn’t go months back to the big debut and tell the golden-haired _dumbass_ to _go home_.

He couldn’t even turn back minutes and tell himself to fly faster. Couldn’t peel back the seconds so that _whatever Takayama saw_ he wouldn’t have to see alone.

Of all the things. _Of all the things._ That day was set in stone.

 

\--

 

What's odd is that the past is easier to shape than the future. It’s a matter of tweaking words, shifting understandings mixed with the ability to digest, to accept. The future’s a pain to sculpt.

Because while a sea of possibilities await them, there are entire _biomes_ of consequences at every turn.

Is going after Takayama the right idea? Is taking his friends with him? Was it a good decision? Had he effectively doomed them? He can’t tell. And if he leaves, if _they_ leave with him, it’s the sort of big thing that will change everything they’ve come to know. There’s no going back, no redo’s.

Gone will be the days of flying quietly under human radar, of popping only for a minute to play hero before ducking away behind the veil of night. He can’t wait for his father to come home, can’t try to habit the same niche as his mother anymore.

His conscience battled with his better judgement. They’d _hurt_ people, one said, perhaps irreparably.

It was Eden, the other countered, they were going to hurt _them_ first _._

They weren’t ‘good’, _he_ wasn’t good. They weren’t human. He couldn’t be human.

A Takayama in his head said, _“Does it even matter?”_


	3. Confession

Rei breathes and holds himself together with ropes made of fingers and tightly strung nerves.

The human part of him is scared. It whimpers in the back of his mind, a constant nuisance he's never grown out of. But he gathers splinters of courage in the pit of his stomach and sics it on his anxieties. The birdman part can't -- _won’t_ \-- lie to his friends and, well, the nameless bubbling has haunted his chest for a while. It’s about time he sets it free, he thinks, and fake courage convinces him that now's a better time than most.   

If it bubbled before, then Tsubame’s confession made it overflow. His heart flutters. An hour’s passed but, damn, he still feels a certain type of squishy and excited. They’re a family. _A family!_

It's not just the warmth that overtakes him when they're near. It's not just the feeling of safety that makes him feel invincible.

He loves them. Is that okay? He loves them so much.

Because it manifests in the strangest of ways. He'll answer a question and bite his tongue against a wayward peck of affection. His 'hellos' want to become 'im so glad you're here's. His 'goodbyes' are already 'please don't go away's. Not for Irene, not yet, but he can feel it coming.

So whether it’s a bad time for it, just after Karasuma's return from the Takayama home and minutes before their plane takes off, or the best, he’s blaming Tsubame and her damn smile. Her words rest comfortably on his heart, effortlessly lovely and so incredibly sincere. _They’re a family_.

And now he’s blushing. Oh _no_. He wills his mask just a little higher so it sits on the bridge of his nose and hides his flaming cheeks. He looks to his sides as if smuggling a pearl, his fragile heart’s final guard.   

They’re busy, flying and chatting and idling the hour away. It seems he’s in the clear until Irene shoots a gaze, a single raised eyebrow that punctuates an unasked question. Rei feels something shatter and instantly regrets any time he’s ever teased Karasuma of the same. What he needs right now is a wing dome, a big one to hide _him_ and his damn _feelings_ . Then he remembers the pounding in his chest and realises that even all his wingmass wouldn’t be _nearly_ enough to hold it at bay.

It’s not like there’s a pressure to say it--not like anything would _change_ . But it’s in the air now, real and tangible. Letting them know is something he _needs_ before his head _disintegrates_ from thinking too much.

He waits till they’ve reached a spit of trees outside Narita Airport, then asks them if --maybe-- they could hold on a second. He twiddles his thumbs behind his back, hoping for casual and while knowing full well that he’s missed it. Ever kind, they oblige him.

 _Is something wrong?_   Karasuma tweets as he brushes past. His eyes are centered entirely on him, his eyebrow slightly quirked. Rei blinks before answering.

“No, not quite, it’s…” And he bites his tongue against an excuse. His stomach churns. His fingers sweat. They're in a disorder, staring with curious red eyes. He can almost smell the gears turning in their mind. His better judgement--the one he’s been ignoring-- hisses warnings at him, but it's absolutely imperative that they know he'd follow them to hell and back. Likely they already know by some weird wing instinct, but... it’s important. To him.

“I have something I want to say.”

His eyes train to the sky and he is surprised there isn't a physical manifestation of his heart screaming. He's kinda glad though, because that would kind of ruin the mood.

He breathes. Once. Twice. 

Rei takes all the feelings that have coloured his mind and tries to say, “I love you.”

 

.


End file.
